


That Pound of Flesh You Owe

by Sandalaris



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Angsty kissing, F/M, Tumblr Prompt, am I the first one to write for these two?, i think i am, very short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandalaris/pseuds/Sandalaris
Summary: She makes demands, and he has no choice but to answer.
Relationships: Richie Gecko/Dakota McGraw-Block
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	That Pound of Flesh You Owe

**Author's Note:**

> [alwaysupatnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysupatnight/pseuds/alwaysupatnight) asked: For the fictional kiss prompts: 1 & 2 with a little mix of 10!! As for the characters... I guess that depends on how you feel about a Richie/Dakota Block pairing? Ngl I was always kinda into the idea of them hatef*cking each other. 😂 If that’s not a pairing you’re into though, feel free to pick one you like!! :P
> 
> I love the idea of these two so much.

There are nails digging into the side of his neck, short and dull and a little ragged along the edges. _Doctor’s nails,_ Richie thinks, meant for healing hands and professional smiles, now digging furrows into his neck as she half-yanks, half-shoves him into a better angle, mouth dragging against his in a hard line.

He can feel her teeth, human and blunt, against the closed press of their lips before she all but hauls him closer, one hand fisted in the collar of his shirt while the other cuts half-moons into his skin. He wonders if she’s trying to draw blood, slice into him the way he did her over a year ago. Something shivers in anticipation in his chest at the thought and his feet stumble after her as she falls back a step.

Her entire body jerks, jarring them apart as her back knocks against the edge of some randomly placed table he never saw the point of. Richie’s hand comes up to rest against the side of her ribs in an futile effort to steady her before she slaps it away, brows drawn in a glare like he tried to take liberties, and maybe he did. Maybe killing her old man gave her the keys to this song and dance of theirs, leaving him groping in the dark for the rules and edges.

“I-“

 _“Don’t,”_ she snaps, but there’s something fragile and broken under that simple word that derails him more than her protest, and he looks at her, studies that unforgiving flint in her gaze and the special brand of defiance in the tilt of her jaw, and wonders.

 _Why are you here?_ he wants to ask, wants to form the words and make the demand into the empty space between them. He can’t quite bring them to the surface though. She does that to him, mixes up guilt and shame and curiosity within him, like she’s full of all the answers while he hasn’t yet earned the right to the questions. He should hate it, being the type of man that he is. Should, but doesn't.

He settles for the grasping at the hem of her denim jacket, bunching the material up almost questioningly but she doesn’t push him away, hands dropping to the wrinkled collar of his shirt and yanking him down again, hard enough he feels the button at his throat give with a muted snap as she claims his mouth once more. She’s not gentle, no softness in her when she parts her lips, dry and rough from the desert air, and scrapes those blunt edges of cutting bone against the soft give of his bottom lip. Her hand comes up to grasp his chin, yanking downward on his jaw and forcing an entrance for the sharp thrust of her tongue, and he gives in with a twisted thrill.

He’s always been better at surrender.


End file.
